


There's a Hole in My Life, I Wish I Could Fill It (With Anything But You)

by waterbird13



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dirty Talk, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Painful Sex, Past Underage Sex, Rough Sex, Sam Winchester has terrible self-esteem, Sam/others - Freeform, bad sexual decisions, brief mentions of suicidal Sam, deals vaguely with consent issues, dub-con situations, mentions of Dean/others, mentions of John Winchester's terrible parenting, minor hurt Sam Winchester, past Sam Winchester/Amelia Richardson - Freeform, past Sam Winchester/Jessica Moore - Freeform, past Sam Winchester/Madison, terrible communication skills
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-05
Updated: 2013-08-05
Packaged: 2017-12-22 11:25:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/912645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waterbird13/pseuds/waterbird13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean got together when Sam was sixteen, but Sam figures out pretty quickly that it's not exactly what he wanted. Sex can be used as a tool just like anything else can. When the world-saving fight is over, Sam still wants his brother, but knows he can never have him again. But when Dean asks to start their relationship again, Sam takes drastic measures to ensure what happened last time will never happen again. This story does deal with dubious levels of consent, but I promise you that by the end everyone is happy and enthusiastically consenting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There's a Hole in My Life, I Wish I Could Fill It (With Anything But You)

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, here goes. First Supernatural fan fiction, I'm an odd combination of nervous and terrified. Here we go.
> 
> So, this takes place at some indefinable point after canon, where the world doesn't need so much saving and Sam and Dean can just hunt again. In this story, Sam is still pretty damaged, even after the ending of season eight and Dean's big declaration, because I personally doubt Dean will ever follow it up. On the contrary, Sam will probably hear again what a fuck up he is, and won't hear for a long while how much Dean values him. So Sam's self esteem is shit.
> 
> Warning that all mistakes are completely and entirely my own, and I apologize for any and all that you may find.
> 
> One more time, warning for dubious consent, an underage character (16) having sex, rough (and painful) sex, gratuitous misunderstandings, Winchesters who really, really suck at communication, characters with terrible self-esteem, and terrible sexual decisions. Do I actually have to warn that, yes, there is explicit sex in this work? And incest? Well, there is. You've been warned. I think that's it.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

Sam doesn’t remember when he starts to have feelings for his brother. When did hero worship merge to brotherly love transform into something more? Regardless, the first time he wakes up, boxers sticky and skin sweaty, it’s Dean’s name that he barely refrains from saying aloud, so he knows he’s fucked. He’s not so isolated from normal society that he doesn’t know it’s wrong to love his own brother. But he’s never felt clean, so what, really, is one more polluting element, as long as no one ever knows?

But, see, Dean finds out, because Dean seems to know everything about Sam. Sure, a lot of the stuff he ignores, pretends it doesn’t exist if it doesn’t suit him to recognize it, like the fact that John sometimes scares the shit out of Sam and that Sam hates hunting with his whole soul, but something like this? Yeah, Dean knows it. He doesn’t say anything, just saves it in the back of his mind, to maybe use someday. Maybe he’s saving it for when he really, really needs to get at Sam during a fight, but it turns out John presents him with a much better opportunity.

It’s not exactly a secret that John doesn’t trust Sam. He wants to train him, to mold him into the perfect soldier, but he doesn’t want a thinker and really, that’s what Sam is. He thinks, he analyzes, he questions, and John doesn’t like that much. He’s always trying to control Sam. Only problem is Sam lost all respect for the man, probably that Christmas where he finally learned the truth and accepted that John would never be there for them, and John doesn’t have much leverage left over his youngest son. Sam’s not scared of a beating, and John won’t go so far as to do any actual, long-lasting damage to his son. His hold on Sam is rapidly diminishing.

But that Christmas where Sam lost his trust in John, he gained some sort of inalienable belief that Dean will always be there for him. Sure, Dean sides with John during fights, and gives Sam vicious, dirty looks when Sam expresses his displeasure with John’s training or hunts or another move, and sometimes he leaves Sam alone for weeks at a time to go hunt with John, but Sam still knows that Dean is there for him. He always will be, and Sam believes that one fact more strongly than anything else. He knows that, at the end of the day, Dean will always be there for him, and that one simple fact allows things to happen the way they do.

Sam never found out if John laid out every detail of the plan, or if he simply told Dean to control your brother and Dean thought of the rest all on his own. Sam doesn’t really blame Dean, either way, even though he wants to hate him for what he did. But he knows what John’s orders mean to Dean, knows Dean’s desperate desire to keep their family together, so all Sam is really capable of feeling is blinding sadness. Of course, at first, Sam didn’t know it was part of any plan at all, and when he worked it out later, he was too much of a coward to ask for the details.

It’s a surprise when Dean picks him up after school one day when Sam is sixteen. Dean and John were supposed to be on a hunt, but Dean, evidently, stayed behind. It’s even more of a surprise when Dean drives Sam out of town, away from the motel and up to the stereotypical make-out spot and leans across the front seat without warning. Sam startles back, almost reaching to pinch the inside of his thigh, because he’s relatively sure he’s had this wet dream before.

Dean laughs, the low, husky sound making Sam’s dick even harder, and he’s positive he’s jerked off to this thought before. “C’mon, Sammy,” Dean rasps, “know you want it.”

Sam understands now. Dean is finally using this against him, picking now for some unknown reason to torment him. Then Dean surges forwards, grabs Sam’s face, and kisses him. Sam nearly melts under the onslaught.

Dean pulls back and chuckles. “Wanted this too, Sammy,” he murmurs, and Sam decides to hell with caution and leans in for another kiss.

And thus begins what Sam considers a truly spectacular relationship. The sex is great and Dean is patient and loving when it’s just the two of them, and they still act like brothers most of the time. And Dean is mostly faithful which, really, is all Sam can ask for. After all, it’s Sam that Dean comes home to on the nights he goes to fuck a girl, so Sam makes his peace with the infidelity. Dean backs out of more and more hunts so he can stay with Sam, and Sam thinks maybe he died and someone made a mistake and he made it to heaven.

He’s about sixteen and a half when he begins to notice some weird things. Like how when Sam starts to complain about moving or training or John’s plans for a hunt Dean will drag him away and fuck him stupid so he doesn’t complain. And maybe that’s just Dean being Dean, ever determined to keep the peace in their family. Maybe, Sam could overlook that. But then sex seems more like a reward for doing what Dean wants—Dean fucks him for holding his tongue when John chews him out for messing up a weapons drill, blows him in the shower when he moves three states away in the middle of a semester without complaint, rims him until he comes when Sam does the research as well as his schoolwork and his daily training without a single complaint—and not something they have because they love each other. Sam tests his theory, lets himself start a major blowout fight with John, and, sure enough, Dean gets pissed and leaves with John that very night for a hunt, even though he’d been promising to stay behind with Sam before the fight happened. There’s a sick feeling in Sam’s stomach nearly all the time. It’s not a new feeling, really, but it’s worse because he’s dragging Dean into whatever is wrong with him. He knows that Dean is trying to control him, and is sinking into whatever perversion makes Sam this way, is being corrupted as well by Sam’s sick affection for his brother. Dean can’t love Sam, not like this, and deep down Sam has always known that, but he’d wanted his brother badly enough that he’d been willing to pretend. He hates himself for allowing Dean to do this, all in the name of making Sam happy and following John’s orders.

Sam keeps going on, hides how he feels and falls into line. But he secretly saves every penny he can, salvaging lunch money and returning bottles and cans from the sides of the road, mowing lawns and walking dogs, washing cars and lugging boxes to pay for SATS and APs and college applications and test booklets and everything else he needs. It pays off, because he gets a full ride to Stanford, and one day he tells his father and John throws him out, tells him You walk out that door, don’t bother coming back and Dean just looks at him, looks shocked and disappointed, so Sam gathers up his duffel and walks out the door.

He makes it to the bus station, goes to Palo Alto and leaves one message for Dean, judging his call so it will most likely go unanswered and he can just leave a message. The machine beeps, and he gives Dean his new address in the dorms, says his phone number isn’t changing, and reminds his brother that just because John told him not to come back, that doesn’t mean everything has to be over between them. They can be lovers, or brothers, or friends, or whatever Dean wants. Sam never gets a call back.

The years pass, he does well in his classes, works as a waiter to pay rent and buy books and food. He survives, even if he’s somewhat hollow inside. He gets a girlfriend, loves her more than anything left in his life, but he still walks down the street with one ear tuned for the Impala. Just in case. Once or twice, he swears he hears her.

Then of course, John goes missing and Jess dies, burning on the ceiling like mom, and Sam is once more a hunter. More than that, he’s a hunter on the road with Dean, who he still wants, still loves, and is still sane enough to know that Dean doesn’t really want him back.

They start up again not long after John dies. Dean’s drunk and pushes Sam into a wall, sloppily biting and licking at his neck, and Sam lets him because Dean still thinks he’s going to leave, and if this is what Dean needs to know Sam won’t, then Sam can more than willingly give it. If Dean thinks this gives him control, than it’s what Sam needs to give him. And, if Sam is honest with himself, he really missed this, and he’s selfish enough to take it.

He knows it doesn’t mean much, it just means Dean thinks he has the control he needs so much back, doesn’t mean Dean feels the same way. Still, he cries a bit in the shower the first time Dean sleeps with someone else. By the fourth new girl, he’s steeled himself, understanding it’s not a relationship. Never will be a relationship.

Dean goes to hell and he falls in with Ruby, breaking his one-sided mostly-monogamous relationship and only feeling a little guilty for it. Dean sleeps with other people all the time. Besides, he’s doing this all for Dean, anyways.

He kills Lillith and sets Lucifer free and Dean fucks him one last time, rough and hard and completely uncaring for Sam’s pleasure or even for his comfort. Sam doesn’t say anything, doesn’t ask him to stop, not sure if he even would and pretty sure he deserves this, anyways. Dean has never used sex to punish him before. It had always been a reward, a bribe, and now it’s the most cruel, callous action Sam has ever felt. He cries, can’t help the tears, and Dean pretends not to notice, gets himself off and rolls away, gets his breath back and moves to the other bed. San rolls so he’s facing the other way, bites his fist to stop the sound coming out and lets himself cry a bit. Sam understands what this means, knows that now even Dean has given up on him, even Dean thinks Sam can’t be shaped into something redeemable any longer. Even Dean has finally accepted how impure Sam is. The next day, he and Dean split up, deciding that Sam was too weak to be a hunter, that Dean was better off alone.

Sam doesn’t completely understand, but they end up back together again and again, but only in the sense of hunting together. Sam still wants his brother, still thinks that he loves him more than anything else on earth, in hell, heaven, or purgatory, but he never touches him again, because now he knows what he is. Now he knows he’s an abomination, corrupted and unnatural, and he won’t touch Dean out of fear of corrupting him too. Also, of course, is the fact that Dean never actually wanted him in the first place. Their entire relationship—the parts where they were in love and wanted each other simply because they couldn’t stop the passion—are entirely in Sam’s head.

Sam does the trials and pretends to be optimistic for Dean’s sake, but he knows chances are good that he’ll die, and when he’s so weak that he’s coughing up blood and sleeping for days and running impossible fevers, he knows he’s not making it out alive. That’s okay, he rationalizes. He’s already lived longer than he should—should still be in the cage, doesn’t understand why Dean brought him back—and if his last act can be not only an act of good but also something that would make Dean proud, than Sam is more than satisfied with that ending. Maybe it’ll be something to hold onto while he burns in hell. Or maybe there’s enough monster inside his soul that he’ll spend eternity in purgatory, being hunted by monsters. C’est la vie…

But Dean shows up and stops him, pulls him back and refuses to let Sam go, tells Sam how important he is, drags him back to the bunker and begins to heal him best he can, physically at least. And Sam feels terrible that Dean once more got caught in his old promises to John, that protect your brother overrode his honesty, because he knows what Dean really thinks of him and why the hell would Dean want someone like that to survive?

Time passes, and they never bring up that night in the church, the night the angels fell, again. Dean never says anything either way again, and Sam hates himself just a little bit more, for being the object Dean is so tragically and irreversibly tied to, the one thing he can’t let go of, no matter how much he should.

Sam is never quite sure how they transfer from world-savers back to regular hunters again. The world just seems to need less saving, the apocalyptic threats calming down. Every once in a while some serious threat will pop up, but they’re the masters of this now, and they usually handle it relatively quickly. Kevin, prophet of the lord, Castiel, fall angel-turned hunter, Charlie, occasional hunter and computer genius, Garth, absent-minded command central, Dean, righteous man, and Sam, the inexplicably still living abomination, make a very efficient team when it comes to the end of the world. Most of the time, they hunt poltergeists and wendigos and shifters and the like, able to focus on the classic hunter shtick instead of the apocalypse. Kevin is in college when the world isn’t ending. Charlie, when she’s not working on her supernatural database or occasionally hunting, is working for Google. Cas and occasionally Garth hunt with the Winchesters, and everyone but Sam seems to be, if not happy, then at least content.

They’re hunting a possible lady in white in Oregon when they crash at the Rosie Inn. It’s hideous, and needs a remodel about fifty years ago, but the rooms are dirt cheap, which is good, because they have to rent two now. Sam always volunteers to take the room alone, which, despite the extra space it offers, is less desirable because it is strategically weaker. He lets Dean or Cas have it if they’re bringing someone back to the room with them, or if they specifically ask for a night to themselves, but other than that, he takes the room and no one even questions it anymore. Dean and Cas push into room seven, and Sam walks next door and unlocks eight, locking it behind him and quickly salting the room, rolling out the old towel he painted with a devil’s trap in front of the door, like a sick parody of a welcome mat. He slips his gun from the waistband of his jeans and moves it under his pillow, and takes his knife from his boot and drops it next to the gun. He kicks off his boots, crawls under the scratchy covers, and crashes.

Loud knocking wakes him up, and he approaches the door with his gun in his hand. He peers out, realizes it’s just Dean, drops the gun on the table and unlocks the door. Dean breezes in and sits on the bed. Sam sighs and pushes his hair out his face. “Need something?” he asks pointedly, wanting Dean gone, wanting to go back to bed, but Dean doesn’t budge.

“Yeah,” Dean drawls, and it’s unfair that the combination of him sitting on Sam’s bed and his deep, rasping voice can make Sam half-hard without a single touch. He shifts and subtly as possible. “Lookin’ for some answers, Sammy,” he continues.

Sam nearly groans, but holds himself together. “Look, man, I’ve been asleep. I’ll get on the research now, alright? Gimme an hour or so.”

But Dean shakes his head. “Not ‘bout the case, man,” he says. “Look,” Dean says. “It’s been years, Sammy. Years. And Cas is tellin’ me that I need to stop annoyin’ him about it and just fucking talk to you. And you know I don’t like this shit, Sam, but here I am.”

Sam is not nearly awake enough to hold this nonsensical conversation. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

Dean groans, like spelling it out for Sam is the most difficult thing he’s done all day. “Us, man,” he says, and there’s a certain expression on his face that clues Sam in to what is actually being said.

His blood seems to turn to ice, and is Dean really sitting on Sam’s bed, asking to get back together? Or as together as they ever were? Does he really think he needs to control Sam that much?

Sam wracks his brains for anything that could’ve set this off, which is a task made far more difficult by the fact that his dick is growing harder by the second, seemingly not as phased by the idea as his brain is. He hasn’t even hinted about wanting a hit of demon blood, hasn’t been hunting on his own or going behind Dean’s back. Hell, he barely ever puts up a fight about Dean’s plans when they hunt, and when he does, he’s just trying to find a way to keep them all safer. He honestly can’t think of what he’s done to make Dean think that this is once again necessary. He’s been trying very hard to fall into line, to be something Dean won’t always have to look at and see as a screw-up. It’s not that he’s shocked that he apparently failed, it’s more that he doesn’t know what he did to fail this time.

Dean must see something on his face, because suddenly he looks nervous too. “Look, Sam, if you don’ want this anymore, all you gotta do is say so. But I thought…”

Sam is still trying to process the situation, still desperately trying to come up with an explanation while simultaneously trying very hard not to think about what Dean is offering him. He may not have known when he was a teenager, he may have had a good reason after dad died, but Sam is over thirty years old and that means old enough to know that there is no excuse. If he says yes, he is taking advantage of Dean, he’s practically raping him, forcing him to have sex so Sam will give him what he wants, and Sam feels bile in his throat.

“Dean…what brought this on?” he asks in an attempt to buy more time, to find an out in a way that won’t let Dean knows that he knows.

Dean shrugs. “It’s been years, Sammy. I still—I still want this, Sammy. Don’t you?”

All Sam hears is You still need this, Sammy. Don’t you want it? Dean thinks Sam needs this, needs to be kept in line with careful management and sex. And, Jesus, is he that easy to control? Will he really spread his legs, take his big brother’s dick, and roll over and behave for said big brother? He swallows, because he knows that he has before and if he doesn’t put a stop to this right now, he will again.

“I…I need a minute,” he manages to choke out. Dean’s eyebrow shoots up.

“Sure, Sammy,” he says. “Take whatever you need.”

Sam is out the door in record time, and before Dean can figure out what has happened, Sam is sitting in a tractor trailer heading east at sixty-five miles an hour.

 

Sam stops at a storage locker of theirs, picks up a new knife—stupid of him, not to keep it on him at all times, even if it had been only under his pillow—a sawed-off and a handgun as well as several other hunting weapons and tools, a set of IDs, and three or four changes of clothes. Then he goes to an internet café—why did he leave his laptop behind, amateur mistake—and begins digging through local news for a hunt.

He finds something relatively quickly. There’s something in the next town over, with a young mother dying every few weeks. All are perfectly healthy women, in their twenties, with one or more children. Their deaths are being labeled as strokes, but whoever heard of six women that age all having strokes in a five month period? Sam examines the case, poses as the FBI to examine the most recent body, interviews the victims’ families, and comes to the conclusion that it’s a cursed object.

Eventually he traces it to the library, finds the copy of Goodnight Moon that every woman checked out for her children. He burns the damn thing and leaves six dollars on the library counter with a note saying they’re to replace Goodnight Moon with. He’ll keep an eye on the news in this little town, but dollars to donuts the killings are over now. He has a feeling that the story behind the curse of Goodnight Moon will be a horrifying one, but he doesn’t dig, doesn’t want to know. If the killings really are over, then he will never need to know.

Sam feels empty afterwards, although he just completed what was without a doubt a successful—if simple—hunt. But there is no Dean. There is no Cas, or Charlie, or Kevin, or Garth, either, because any one of them will tell Dean where he is and Sam can’t afford that. Dean can’t know because Sam knows if he hears Dean’s offer one more time, Sam’ll go back to Dean, consequences and Dean’s real feelings be damned. Sam’ll just need to prove that he can control himself, that he can stay out of trouble without their intervention, and then maybe they’ll leave him alone and Sam won’t corrupt his brother. He’s sure they’ll stop looking when they realize he’s not a threat. He’s been tagging along in their little group for a very long time now, years of no longer being really necessary and just being there. He hopes they’ll let him go.

He steals a car and feels terrible about it, but he needs wheels out of town. He takes good care of the car, leaves it in Missouri and hopes it makes it home. There, he spends two nights going pool hall to pool hall, raking in over a thousand dollars. He then buys a piece of shit used car, both to assuage his conscious about stealing and to make it a little harder for Dean to track him down. Stolen cars means police reports left behind, hitchhiking with truckers means people who maybe will talk. This way, he’s under the radar.

He moves on and plays some more pool, gets himself into a bet by the dartboard and wins almost four hundred from that alone. He won’t have to worry about cheap motels, cheap food, bad coffee, and gas for a while at least. He moves on again and spends the night in his car on the side of the road. It’s not like he needs a better bed then the backseat. He doesn’t sleep well either way.

He takes a job in Montana that he’s pretty sure is the work of a werewolf, and his throat constricts. When he thinks werewolf he still thinks Madison, the pain from that shitstorm never quite fading entirely. And no, he’ll never feel about her what he feels for Dean, but still. She was one of the few people who could’ve been second best for Sam, and when he was younger, when he thought he maybe deserved good things, that was all he expected to have.

So, yeah, werewolves remind him of the girl he could’ve loved but instead shot in the head, but usually Dean is there, his silent, unknowing support helping Sam through the hunts. Dean just being there is a reminder to Sam that everything will be okay, even when it doesn’t feel that way. But Dean isn’t there, and Sam for a single moment is tempted to leave this hunt alone, but he can’t, because people are dying.

He’s tempted to call Dean a dozen or so times during the five day hunt, needing to hear his voice. But if he calls Dean, Dean will ask where he is, and what’s going on, and Sam can’t do that. So he doesn’t call, and each and every day he gets more and more strung out, more twitchy and on edge.

Finally, day five is the full moon and Sam finds what he needs, puts a silver bullet through the werewolf’s heart and burns the body. He feels terrible doing so, because when he’s not unwittingly running around killing people, this werewolf is a thirty-six year old man with two children who he sees every other weekend and a job as a teacher that he loves. He’s a typical, relatively happy guy. At least, he is until night comes and he turns into something outside his control.

Now, the beloved teacher won’t be in class on Monday, no one will pick his children up Friday night, no one will ever know what happened to the man. Like Sam himself, Sam supposes, if something were to happen to him. The difference, he figures, is that no one will really be looking for Sam.

He hightails it out of town before someone can connect the weird drifter with the missing teacher, but his body is still itching with some strange need. It’s for Dean, Sam knows, and it’s not even a sexual need. Or it’s not a strictly sexual need. He just needs Dean, close and nearby, anyway that he can get him. He needs the reassurance that someone loves him (does Dean even really still love him? After all that he’s done?). He needs the easy comfort of just having someone he trusts so completely nearby. He needs the way his soul eases when Dean is around, he needs the feeling that he sometimes gets when Dean looks at him, like despite all the bad things, things he’s done and things that have happened to them, nothing matters and he can just be, just for a minute or two.

But he can’t call Dean, can’t have that closeness. Because if he goes back to his brother, he will take him up on his offer. Sam still doesn’t know why Dean brought it all back up, what he’d done to make Dean think it was necessary, but he knows he can’t let it happen. He’s taking advantage of Dean every time he does.

Sam rents a room at a no-tell motel. It’s tiny, the carpet is a mysterious color, the bed advertised as a queen but it actually only a double, the air conditioning is broken, the water is slightly brown, and the wallpaper is peeling. In short, most cracked-out hookers would refuse to use the place. Sam doesn’t care. There’s a cheap bed, and that’s all he needs.  
He lies back on the bed, pointedly ignoring the slightly crusty quilt, and tugs his pants down to his knees and closes his eyes, strokes his cock and sighs. He can’t call Dean, can’t really be close to him. But he can close his eyes and pretend to be back in the days where he really thought Dean loved him like this.

He sees Dean kneeling over him, mischief in his eyes as he leans down and takes one of Sam’s nipples in his teeth. Sam groans, pinching his own nipple and lets the fantasy play out. Dean’s hand travels down to his crotch, slowly stroking Sam, driving him wild.

This isn’t a fantasy, Sam realizes in the back of his mind. It’s a memory of sorts, a recollection of the fourth or fifth time he and Dean had sex together, back when Sam was only sixteen. Sam’s fully-functioning, completely aware adult brain plays the memory, realizes that John had been gone on a hunt, had called earlier that day to say he was coming home and the boys should be packed to go when he gets there. He swallows, and his eyes open, because now even his little fantasy-memory is corrupted, now he can’t even pretend that Dean really wanted him then, because he’s not an idiot and he knows the truth. He pulls his pants back up, knowing that this won’t work. He can’t even pretend to have some form of intimacy with Dean anymore.

So, there’s nothing left but try to push aside the truth and try again, or call Dean and try to resist actually going back once he hears him talk. Both sound pretty damn impossible to Sam. Of course, he realizes, there’s a third option, and that’s to act like a man who’s in his fucking thirties, someone who can take care of themselves and who doesn’t need to be close to his brother/inappropriate crush when he has a bad day.

He groans and stands, collects his knife and gun, his wallet and jacket, and heads out the door.

 

The bar is some fancy place, the type of place that not only serves appletinis, but has people that drink them. But it’s also within walking distance, and Sam is still socially responsible enough that he won’t drive if he plans on getting drunk. And Sam fully intends to get shit-faced tonight.

He’s still drinking beer, but fully intends to migrate to something harder once a buzz sets in, when someone sits next to him. He looks over at the man with one eye, only half interested when he deems the man to not be a threat.

He’s a big guy, like he lifts weights and eats right and does all those things necessary to have some muscle-bound pretty physique. Sam eyes him critically for maybe half a second, decides that despite the man’s size, Sam could still take him with one hand behind his back, and goes back to his beer.

But the man is persistent, and eventually Sam decides what the hell. He can see where this is going a mile away and he finds that he wants it. Or, not precisely wants it, because the only thing he really wants is Dean. But what is the harm in getting laid tonight? Maybe it’ll be good for him, remind him that this is the rest of his life, that he’ll never have Dean.

So they leave together and go back to Sam’s motel room.

 

Sam wakes up incredibly sore the next day, and when he ensures that he’s now alone, the first thing he does is check his ass. He’s extremely tender, but there’s no blood, so he’s just very sore, not torn.

He’s bruised, though, across his hips and thighs and wrists and even his throat, and he winces at the very thought. It’s not like it’s the first time he’s been choked, but it is the first time he’s ever let someone do it.

Sam likes rough sex, and he’ll be the first to tell you that. But he likes it in equal measures. If he bites, he wants his partner to bite back, and if they scratch their nails down his back, he might squeeze a bruise into their hips. To him, that’s passion. He likes to be able to admire the marks in the mirror the next day, to know there’s a bite mark on his thigh for the next week. With the single exception of Dean, that’s how he liked it.

Dean was different. Dean, so wrapped up in macho posturing bullshit—and maybe a desire to never give himself fully to you, because he didn’t really want you, the traitorous, masochistic part of Sam’s mind whispers—was never willing to be out of perfect control, and Sam never pushed him to give some up, to share the passion in equal measure with Sam. And that, ultimately, had been what Sam had gotten the night before, why he hadn’t stopped Greg or George or whatever when he realized how rough it was going to be, how particularly one-sided. Not that Dean had ever hurt him, with the single exception of that last time together—and that hadn’t hurt physically so much as emotionally, anyways. But the complete loss of control feels about the same, and if he closed his eyes, he could try to imagine it was Dean, being rough because maybe Sam wanted it that way.

He’s never wanted it like this, though. Sure, Sam likes his bruises and bite marks and being a little sore, but he knows without standing that he can’t walk and it hurts to breath. His ass might not be torn, but that’s more luck than any particular care on the part of his partner. He’s been fucked over, and he should’ve put a stop to everything once he realized what Jim or Jack was after. But he didn’t.

If there’s one thing Sam is good at, it’s making plans. Sure, maybe he’s made some truly terrible ones—drinking demon blood, for example—but by and large, they’ve been decent to great, and he thinks this one might fall in one of those categories.

There are lots of men out there like Hank or Henry or whatever who would fuck Sam like that, who’d love to fuck strong, fit Sam until he can’t walk. In short, there are plenty of men out there willing to give Sam the exact opposite of what he really wants.

He wonders exactly how long it will take to make himself hate sex, hate it so completely that he never wants to have it again. And then maybe—well, he’ll always love Dean, he knows that, his love is rooted in way more than just sex—but then maybe he at least won’t want to physically assault Dean, take advantage of him sexually. Maybe then he can go back—if they still even want you back, the traitorous, insidious voice in his mind whispers—and be near Dean and Cas and Charlie and Kevin and Garth and especially Dean again. He can prove to Dean that he can control himself, and he won’t ever be tempted again to let Dean essentially prostitute himself to Sam like that. He’ll always love Dean, but maybe without sex in the picture he can hide how he feels a little better, they can pretend to be normal brothers—one screwup and one brave hunter, stuck with the little brother because he’s too goddamned good-hearted to kick his ass to the curb—and Sam can have the person he cares about most back.

It’s nearly entirely selfish, he knows, because the best way to protect Dean would be to stay away and give him no chance of making his offer to Sam again. But Sam is selfish, has always known that, and he doesn’t think he can go through another hunt like the last without Dean nearby. So he sets a course of action and follows it.

 

He finishes his fourth hunt since he left Dean and finds a nearby bar. He wonders if he’ll find anyone here, or if he’ll have to search a bit tonight. But there’s a muscle-bound blonde at the bar, and Sam is getting pretty good at telling who’ll give him what he asks for and who won’t, so he tries his luck.

He’s pressed face first in the alley, bricks scraping along his face, and Sam thinks he’ll have more injuries from this than he will from the damn poltergeist he’d killed just hours before. There’s a hand in the back of his neck, not yet slipping around to his throat but Sam suspects it’s getting there. His pants and underwear are ripped down, getting caught on Sam’s knees. Sam notes with satisfaction that he’s not even hard, though whether that’s due to his plan working or the simple fact that his body doesn’t view this brutal display as a turn on at all, he can’t say. Still. He thinks it’s probably working.

He bites his lip to keep from screaming out when the guy shoves in, not nearly enough prep and maybe some tearing. But still, he can’t scream, because they are in the middle of the Bible belt and Sam has no desire for someone to hear his screams and come to investigate.

The man finishes with a grunt and pulls out of Sam’s brutalized hole, leaving without so much as a thanks. Sam pulls up his pants, wishing they did this in the bathroom so there’d be something to clean his ass with. And then he goes back to his room, another no-tell motel with mysterious stains and brown water and a shower that only runs cold. He cleans himself up the best he can and wonders what, if anything, he should do for the tearing in his ass. He’s not stupid, knows that can be incredibly dangerous to leave untreated, but he snorts, because story ofhis life. He treats his own bullet wounds with needles sterilized with whiskey and dental floss and a whiskey bath. If he hasn’t died of infection yet, then he probably isn’t going to.

So he packs up his room and drives to the local library, wincing as he walks over to the computers. He pulls up newspapers from all over the country, looking for anything that might resemble a hunt. Looking at all the signs, he thinks there might be a changeling in Mississippi. He frowns. He hasn’t seen a changeling in a long time, not since the one that took Ben, where Dean met Lisa again after nine long years. That’s just one more thing to add to his list of reasons why he’s bad for Dean, because Dean maybe really loved Lisa, but he gave her up for Sam, the same way he gave up Lucky Charms or a weekend to himself or his fucking body or his goddamned life or anything else that mattered for Sam.

He reminds himself to focus on the changeling, keeps track of its potential victim, studies photos and records for thirty minutes before deciding it’s the best hunt he’s going to get.  
He’s in Mississippi by nightfall and decides to hold off the investigation until morning. It’s not like he can pose as the FBI and bang on people’s doors now, anyways. Especially not grieving people. So instead he goes for the local bar.

He doesn’t even bother with the charade of getting a drink, just scopes out the customers for someone who might suit his purpose. There’s someone, there always is, and Sam is somewhat proud of himself, because he enjoys absolutely none of it, feels disgusting and itchy the entire time. He almost wants to stop it, but of course he doesn’t because that would defeat the point.  
He goes back to his room and cleans himself up yet again, and is relived to find no new tearing in his ass. Bruises, bites, and scrapes litter his body, and he’ll have to keep his interviews short tomorrow because he doubts he’ll be able to really talk, but overall he’s relatively whole. Which is a good thing, because he’s going to need to be in top form to take down the changeling.  
He hasn’t thought of that really, this being the first truly difficult hunt since he came up with his plan, but he’s not suicidal—Dean would never forgive Sam for ending it, would curse his body and find a way to resurrect Sam to curse him some more—so he knows he can’t be doing this during the hunt. He absently wonders if his plan has already worked, if he’s so turned off from the idea of sex already that he won’t need to do this anymore. Or, at least, not as much. He’s sure he’ll need to do this every once in a while for the rest of his life to remind himself on why having sex is a terrible idea, but maybe it won’t be every night anymore.

He decides to test, laying back on the bed completely naked, lowering his hand to his cock and closing his eyes. He starts to stroke, no particular memory or fantasy this time, just the lingering feeling of Dean’s hand on his dick.

Nothing happens. He tries harder, imagines Dean’s lips on his neck. A soft, slow drag of tongue and a breathless chuckle on his pulse point. His dick twitches, finally realizing that it’s interested in this. Frustrated, Sam trails his hand down to his ass, starts pushing at his sore and abused hole, and just like that, he’s no longer interested.

So, that’s how it will be. He’s somewhat satisfied with his work over the last few weeks, thinks maybe he’ll be less of a freak, wanting to jump his brother, when—if—he goes back. At least the idea of Dean’s cock in his ass is somewhat unappealing now. Maybe when he’s done this hunt, he can find a payphone and call Dean, ask Dean if he still wants Sam as his hunting partner, will promise that they can be just brothers, that Sam will control himself now.

He tries not to think about what he’ll do if Dean says no, tells Sam that this was one weird, freaky thing too many, that he doesn’t trust Sam to keep himself under control. If Dean tells him to stay gone, Sam likes to pretend that he’ll listen, that he’ll stay away and keep hunting. But eventually, he knows, something will be too much, and without Dean’s presence remind him that they will all eventually be all right, Sam isn’t quite sure what he’ll do. Will he do something stupid that’ll almost cause the world to end once more? Or will it be like when Dean was in purgatory, when he tried to kill himself and had the dumb luck to be saved by almost killing a dog? Only this time, Sam knows, there will be no dog.

 

He takes the changeling down and is battered to hell for his troubles, but he gets the four kids the monster managed to grab home safe and sound, slips away from the cries of frightened but grateful parents. He makes it back to his motel and bandages himself up, covering scrapes and stitching the worst two. He managed to burn his hand trying to kill the changeling, so he soaks that for a bit.

He deems himself okay and heads out for the bar, finds himself a partner—one last reminder, beat the lesson in before he tries to call Dean—and is once more pressed face-first in an alleyway. He grunts when the man doesn’t waste any time, gets one hand on his throat, the other pushing roughly against his ass, two fingers in his hole. He’s barely started scissoring his fingers when he pulls them out, and Sam hears the tearing of a condom wrapper before a dick is shoving against his hole.

Suddenly there’s a scuffle, and then the man on top of him is gone with a whimper, and there are hands on Sam once more, but there are gentle and familiar. They lower him so he’s sitting, tilt his head as if to examine him. He blinks his eyes open, looks over to a pair of the bluest eyes he’s ever seen and a worried expression.

“C—Cas?” he asks blearily, voice rasping from the abuse to his throat.

“Shh,” Cas reproaches. “Don’t try to talk just yet. The brute is gone, but I couldn’t stop him before he hurt you.”

“Why?” Sam asks hoarsely.

Cas raises an eyebrow. “He was hurting you, Sam. Of course I stopped him.” Sam doesn’t correct him yet, doesn’t say that he’d asked for it, doesn’t want to imagine Cas’s reaction to that piece of information.

Sam takes a deep breath, gets some of his strength back and sits up proper, with has back against the wall, and pulls his pants back up, because Cas might be family but this was too much for anyone to see.

He hurts, and he’s somewhat proud of that hurt right now, but he never thought someone would actually see him like this, and he swallows, because this is Cas, and Cas tells Dean everything, so Dean too will know.

“What’re you doing here?” Sam asks.

“We came for the hunt,” Cas says. “Dean thinks there is a Changeling here.”

“Was a Changeling. She’s dead,” Sam says.

“Oh. You…on your own?” Cas asks.

Sam nods, and Can frowns. “You’re hurt, you need to come with me, come back to us, Sam. Dean has been—Dean has been very worried. He needs to see you.”

“Needs to see me like this?” Sam asks hoarsely, looking down at himself.

Cas looks him stonily in the eye. “He needs to see you anyway at all, Sam.”

So Sam follows Cas back to their motel—a place a step or two up from the one Sam is staying at, though still a crappy place—and follows Cas to their room.

Dean’s facing away from them. “’Bout time you got back, Cas, Christ, the hell were you doing—Sam,” he says abruptly as he turns around. “What the hell, Cas? Where’d you find him?”

Cas backs towards the door. “Sam can tell you that. I am going to get the second room. I will sleep there tonight.” And he leaves the two brothers alone, Sam standing awkwardly by the door, Dean frozen by the beds.

Sam takes a deep breath. He can do this now, he thinks. He can turn down any offer Dean makes him, and he thinks he can probably keep himself out of trouble. Maybe he can convince Dean to just tell Sam when Sam is doing something wrong, so he can fix it. He can handle this without hurting Dean anymore.

But he never wanted Dean to see him like this, see him bruised and limping and hoarse. At least he’s not covered in come. Still, Dean is going to demand an explanation, and how does Sam explain that he’s so fucked in the head that he let more than a dozen men brutalize him in order to be around his big brother without wanting to jump his bones?

“What the hell, Sam?” Dean hisses as he storms towards Sam. He pushes Sam back, pins him to the wall with one arm across his chest. Sam lets him. “If you didn’t want me, all you had to do was fucking say so. I’m not some crying chick. I’m not gonna be offended. Fuck, Sam, I’ve been scared to death. No fucking clue where you were, what the hell had happened.”

Sam stands stock still. “Well, Cas dragged me back. Not going anywhere yet, not if you guys’ll have me back.”

“Have you…of fucking course we’ll have you back.”

“Good,” Sam says, finally pushing at Dean’s arm. “I need to go get my shit. Then I need a shower, then I need sleep. The changeling is dead, we can leave town tomorrow if you want.”

“I’ll drive you to get your shit.”

Sam debates for a second, but he’s really not up for walking over ten miles with a sore ass tonight, so he accepts the offer and follows Dean to the Impala.

 

“So, where the hell were you?” Dean asks after a few minutes.

Sam shrugs. “Hunting,” he says. “Haunted library book, poltergeist, few salt and burns, and… a werewolf,” he says.

Dean looks over at Sam, fury in his eyes. “You hunted a werewolf alone?”

“Wasn’t that bad. Went down easy.”

“You’re not—that’s not the fucking point, Sam. Hunting werewolves on your own—“

“You’ve done it.”

“That’s different.”

Sam feels his temper flare a bit. “Why? Because you’re such a better hunter than me? You’re the best damn hunter in the world, Dean, but I’m not so goddamn incompetent I can’t handle a werewolf.”

Sam hears himself and cringes, remembers the list of things he’s not supposed to do—arguing with Dean, disobeying Dean, hunting alone—growing. He knows doing things like this is what makes Dean think he needs to take drastic steps to control Sam. But he can’t help it. He’s confused, and that makes him pissed off, because he has no idea what rule he broke that made Dean think this was necessary in the first place, has no idea what he’s done to completely erase Dean’s trust in him again. Dean has never trusted him of course, but Sam remembers the years before Dean went to hell but after Dad died, when Dean knew something was wrong with Sam but still trusted him, still treated him like he was redeemable. He didn’t check Sam’s every move then, and as long as Sam didn’t go against Dean’s plans too completely and too often, they were fine. He thought maybe—now that the world wasn’t ending every other day and they were just normal hunters again—he could earn at least that level of trust back. He’s beginning to accept that it’ll never happen.

“Goddamnit, Sam, you can’t handle a fucking werewolf, because I know how you get.”

Sam goes very still. “And how do I get?” he asks.

“You wonder if each one might be like Madison,” Dean says bluntly.

Sam flinches. “He was a father of two, divorced, saw his kids every other weekend,” Sam says. “He’s a grade school teacher, everyone liked him. He did charity work at a fucking animal hospital on the weekends his kids aren’t with him. And I put a bullet in his heart. I didn’t fucking hesitate, I shot him and burnt his corpse. I know I was an ungrateful waste of space as a kid, but I learned how to hunt, Dean.”

“You weren’t an ungrateful waste of space,” Dean says after a minute.

Sam snorts, because Dean can call him whatever he wants, but Sam knows what he was. “Fine, then. Now you know what I did when I was gone.”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “Is that it?”

“What d’you mean?”

“Goddamnit, Sam. You’re limping and there’re bruises in your neck. You’re either lying to me about your hunts, you picked a fight you couldn’t handle, or you had some pretty rough sex. And my money is on the latter.”

Sam shrugs, because he didn’t want Dean to find out, but maybe he can downplay it still. “Yeah, you caught me. Didn’t realize I wasn’t allowed to have sex.”

Dean huffs a frustrated sigh. “So you didn’t want me. You wanted random sex. Fine. Okay. But…Sam, I know you, you’re trying to hide it, but you’re fucking limping, man. And don’t tell me that wasn’t a wince, when I hit that last pothole. Since when are you into that?”

“So I changed. We haven’t slept together in years, Dean. Things maybe have changed since then.” Sam chuckles darkly. “I spent almost two centuries in Lucifer’s cage, lived without a soul…among other things. Don’t you think that might change a guy?”

“So is that why you won’t—with me? You think I can’t give you what you want? ‘Cause, I gotta tell you, I can. Not really my thing, but for you, I’ll do it.”

Sam feels sick, listening to Dean offer up another part of himself, offering to do just one more thing he doesn’t want to.

“No,” he says shortly, and then gets out of the car as soon as Dean pulls into the lot. “I’ve got a car, I’ll meet you back at the hotel,” Sam says.

Dean snorts. “Yeah, like I’m gonna let you out of my fucking sight, Sammy.”

“I told you I’d stick around, Dean,” Sam says tiredly. “I’m gonna get my bag, check out, and drive to the hotel. That’s it.”

Dean frowns and crosses his arms over his chest. “Great. I’ll follow you back.”

Sam sighs, but doesn’t say anymore. He never wins fights with Dean.

They drive back to the motel in silence, and Sam finally gets his shower, scrubbing himself raw in an attempt to clean himself of the man who touched him earlier. Then he walks back into the room to find Dean absently flicking through the channels.

Sam takes his bed and slides under the blankets and turns so he’s facing the door, ready to jump up should he need to. His knife is clutched in his hand under his pillow, his gun on the nightstand. But he doesn’t fall asleep, which really isn’t too much of a surprise.

Dean looks over at him at some point. “Dude, you’re not sleeping. Might as well talk.”

Sam groans, and has a sudden pang for the days when Dean refused to talk about anything deeper than the next hunt and what to get for lunch. “What, Dean?” he asks.

“Sam, we need to talk about this. I need—I need to know what I can do. About this. I can be what you need, swear I can. If you need it rough, fine. You have some hidden kink? I’m cool with it, Sam, I swear I am. Anything. Why is this—why don’t you want me anymore?”

Sam feels nauseous, listening to this, because it almost sounds like Dean really wants Sam, wants him and not just a way to make sure Sam stays in line. “We can’t do this anymore, Dean,” Sam says tiredly. “We’re terrible for each other and you know it. All we’ve ever done is hurt each other.”

“It can be different now, Sammy. It’s just us now, us and Cas and Garth and Charlie and Kevin. And sometimes Krissy. Anyways, no more angels and demons and whatever trying to fuck us over. Just us. We can—I mean, we can’t exactly do white picket fence, two point five kids, nine to five gigs, but this is the most normal you and I are ever gonna get. This is our apple pie life, man. The one that won’t blow up in our faces. So why won’t you let us have it?”

Sam turns on his side, leaving his back to the door and the skin on the back of his neck prickling, but he stubbornly stays facing away. “I’m sorry, Dean,” he says quietly. Dean can pretend Sam is apologizing for saying no, if that’s what he wants to hear.

 

The next morning comes far too quickly, with sunlight streaming through the thin curtains just after five. “God fucking damnit,” Sam mutturs, but doesn’t say anything more.

Usually, about now, he’d go for a run, but something tells him that leaving is not a good idea today. Dean would flip his shit.

So instead he tries to go back to sleep, and he must succeed because when he wakes up again, Dean is gone but Cas is there, watching Sam intently.

“The hell?” Sam asks groggily.

“Your brother told me to watch you,” Cas simply says.

Sam rolls his eyes. “I’m not—Jeez, does he actually think I can’t sit in a locked motel room by myself?”

Cas blinks. “He’s worried.”

Sam sighs. “He doesn’t trust me anymore.”

“You did run away with no explanation. He was very…concerned.”

“I did what I had to do to make sure Dean wouldn’t have to fucking sacrifice any more of himself for me,” Sam snaps.

Cas is clearly confused. “I…do not understand. Dean said he was asking you to resume your sexual relationship. And then you ran away.”

Sam huffs a frustrated breath, but he’s the one who opened his big mouth and started explaining this. Damnit, he just assumed Cas would know the truth, that Dean wouldn’t have left him completely in the dark about this.

“Dean doesn’t sleep with me because he loves me, or is attracted to me, or whatever,” he explains slowly. “He does it ‘cause he knows I love him, I’m attracted to him. And I can’t—couldn’t—resist him. And I’m pretty much open to doing whatever he wants as long as I can pretend he loves me back. He’s been doin’ it since I was sixteen,” Sam says.

Cas still looks confused. “You are mistaken. Your brother…you two are soulmates, Sam. There is no earthly way he does not feel the same way for you as you do for him.”

Sam grits his teeth. “Look, Cas, I guess Dean put you up to this. But it’s not—this is really terrible, okay? Dean is practically prostituting himself every time he makes himself do this. And it’s really not necessary. I swear, I can control myself, keep myself in line. And if I can’t, if I fuck up, all Dean needs to do is tell me. It isn’t like when I was sixteen, when I didn’t want to listen to anyone. I’ll listen to him. If you’re—if being here is some favor to him, can you pass that along?”

“You can fucking tell me yourself,” Dean’s angry voice echoes from the doorway, and Sam nearly jumps out of his skin. “Is that what you think, Sammy? That what you think this is?”

Sam snorts. “What the hell else could it be?”

Dean storms into the room, and Cas hastily backs away from Sam. “I’m just…going to go…” he concludes lamely as he hurries out the door, closing it behind himself.

Dean braces himself against the wall a few feet from Sam, arms crossed over his chest. “Alright, start talking. Tell me where you got this fucked up idea.”

Sam laughs darkly, because it’s the most freeing thing he’s ever felt to have this all in the open, to no longer have to pretend that he doesn’t know. “Yeah? You gonna pretend it was all a coincidence? That you just felt like ignoring me for days when I fought with dad, or that it was just happenstance that you’d fuck me exactly the way I liked it when I stayed up all night to research for you and dad and did my training and my homework without saying a damn thing? Or you just decided to start whatever the hell we were again, just when you were afraid I’d leave? Those all coincidence, Dean?”

Dean grinds his teeth. “You don’t know what you’re talkin’ ‘bout, Sam.”

“I’m not a fucking idiot, Dean,” Sam snaps. “I’m pretty fucking far from it, actually. And, yeah, I’m a world class fuckup, a whole new level of freak, and I know dad told you to keep me in line and you did your job, but damnit, wasn’t there another fucking way? Besides prostituting yourself and fucking me over?”

“Fuck, Sammy, you’re not…” Dean says, running one hand over his face. “You’re not a freak, not a fuckup.”

“Don’t. Don’t you fucking dare. I know what I am, know that you think you need to watch me. Maybe you do. I’ve done terrible, terrible shit on my own before. And maybe I should just be glad that I’m not so irredeemable, so hopeless, in your eyes, that you think maybe it’s worth it to try again to mold me into what you want me to be. But I have no idea what I did this time to make you think this was necessary, and no idea why you won’t just fucking tell me when I’m fucking everything up.”

Dean is away from the wall and in front of Sam in seconds, kneeling next to the bed, trying to get Sam to look at him. “No, Sammy, hey,” he says, but Sam still won’t look. So Dean takes a deep breath. “I didn’t do it…not like you think, Sammy. I mean, yeah, dad told me to get you to behave. But he never—god, Sammy, no. You think I would’ve come up with something like this out of thin air? I’m not that smart, Sam, no matter how often you tell me I am. I wouldn’t have come up with it if I wasn’t already thinkin’ ‘bout it.”

Sam, still not looking at Dean, says, “You were thinking about it ‘cause you knew I wanted it.”

“No—Yes—fuck. Yeah, I knew you wanted it. But, fuck, Sam, maybe you missed the part where Cas reminded you that you and I are fucking soulmates. You’re it for me, man. You’re who I wanted. Even then. And what I did…I just didn’t wanna lose you, Sam. Wanted to keep our family together.”

“Than why the hell were you sleeping with every willing chick with nice legs and tits?” Sam asks scathingly.

“Because I didn’t fucking know we were soulmates, man,” Dean says, as if this is the most obvious explanation ever. “Thought you’d follow my example. Find someone better for you, get some normal experience in. You know, figure out that you didn’t want your fucking brother, that it was some crush, something that happened ‘cause who the hell else were you around enough to get a crush on? Bobby? Pastor Jim? I was the sick one, Sammy, wanting my baby brother. Hell, all I knew, I did something to make you want me.”

Sam looks up finally, but still avoids looking into Dean’s eyes. “It wasn’t…you deserve better, Dean.”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “Better? Yeah, alright. I deserve better than they guy who jumped into Lucifer’s cage to save the world. Who fought Lucifer inside his own goddamn head to save me. Who was willing to die to save the world a second time. Who may have fucked up a few times but always did things for the right reasons. Who has been there for me since he was born. There is no one better, Sammy,” Dean insists, eyes boring into Sam, begging him to believe.

Sam swallows, and Dean seems so sincere, but Sam can’t exactly just abandon what he’s believed since he was sixteen years old. “How do I…how do I know that this is real?” he asks.

“You let me prove it,” Dean says, “Gimme a chance, Sam. No more girls, or anyone. No more sex to get what I want. Well, not like that. I might, you know, blow you if you bring me pie when I ask or something. But I won’t—won’t manipulate you like that anymore. We’ll talk. Communication is important, right? We’ll make a go of this.”

Sam shakes his head. “Dean, I don’t think—“ But Dean’s lips pressed against his cut him off, and it’s a nice kiss. He hasn’t kissed anyone in a long while. The last person may have been Amelia, and he remembers those as sad, desperate little kisses between sad, desperate people. Nothing like this, because this is raw passion and electricity and Sam can feel himself getting hard.

Dean stands up, then crawls onto the bed, lying next to Sam, so they are both on their sides, face to face, and he accomplishes all this without breaking the kiss. Then Dean’s hands shift from Sam’s shoulders, trailing down his back with a clear destination in mind, and as soon as the hands land on his ass, Sam feels himself softening. Dean clearly feels it too, because he pulls away, looking confused and concerned.

“Sammy?” he asks.

Sam blushes, because even if Dean really did mean it, even if he really did want to try, Sam’s stupid plan—why did he think he ever could come up with a plan that works, doesn’t he know that everything he tries fails and backfires—ruined this for them, because there’s no way Sam is going to enjoy Dean sticking his dick in Sam’s ass.

“I—I can’t,” Sam mumbles, and tries to pull away, but Dean takes Sam’s wrist in a gentle grip.

“Cas said, said that something happened,” Dean says. “Says he found you—and it wasn’t good. Was it?”

“It’s not what he thinks,” Sam says dully. “I asked for it.”

“You don’t really like it rough, do you?”

“It had to be rough. Had to make myself hate sex. Had to make it hurt, really hurt.”

Dean physically recoils, but doesn’t let go of Sam. “Why would you do that, Sammy?”

Sam shrugs. “Because I couldn’t live without you.”

“I don’t understand.”

“There was a werewolf. You know that. And you’re right, okay? I can’t do that alone. It hurts. And I wanted—I just wanted to come back, hoped you guys would take me back. But I couldn’t, couldn’t come back like I was. Not if I’d say yes to what you were offering, take advantage of you. Again.”

“You. Are not. Taking advantage. Of me,” Dean growls. “We are soulmates, we both feel this, alright?” he sighs, anger dissipating. “If anything, I took advantage of you in this fucked up little world you’ve got going in your head. I mean, you think I’m using sex to get what I want, but you’re taking advantage of me?”

Sam shrugs, back to not looking Dean in the eye. “Hey,” Dean says softly, using his free hand to try to re-angle Sam’s chin. “It’s gonna be okay, Sammy. I’m gonna remind you that it doesn’t have to hurt. Or, you know, not hurt more than you like. We’re gonna have great sex again. Promise. But,” he says, suddenly thoughtful, “until then, well—you can get it up. Obviously. Is it—is it just your ass? Like, would you be good if I tried to jerk you off?”

“Probably.”

Dean suddenly sported a shit-eating grin. “Good, then. Hold there for a second.” Dean gets up but is back a minute later, a container of lube and a condom grasped in his hand. “Nothing personal about the condom, man,” he says. “Next time we’re home long enough, we’ll get tested, yeah? That way we can know for sure.”

Sam hears, him, processes the words, but still doesn’t really understand what Dean is talking about, and really doesn’t have time to analyze it, as Dean hastily begins to strip them both. Once they’re both naked, Dean leans down and begins to kiss Sam again, this time keeping his hands to Sam’s torso, toying with nipples and tracing biceps. Sam groans into the kiss, trying to arch up for more contact, but Dean slides off Sam, propping himself on his elbow next to Sam and reaches a hand down to grasp Sam’s dick.

Sam reaches for Dean, too, and they begin to jerk each other in tandem, settling on some undiscussed but somehow known rhythm. Then Dean shifts once more, once they’re both fully hard, so he’s kneeling, and pops the cap on the lube and spreads it over his fingers. Sam tenses, but Dean doesn’t reach for Sam.

Sam’s eyes are as wide as saucers when Dean grunts and pushes a finger into himself. “Dude, what the fuck?” Sam pants, breathing already a bit labored just from the sight. “You—you don’t…”

“Bottom?” Dean suggests. “Take it in the ass? Never have, but that was stupid of me. Always should’ve—oh, fuck—always meant to give you everything, Sam. If we’re soulmates, if we’re in this for the long haul, than I’m not wimping out on this. Not anymore.”

“God damnit,” Sam mutters as he watches Dean slide a second finger in. “You, uh, don’t have to. Don’t do something you don’t like.”

Dean groans and his head falls back, and Sam can just imagine him, rubbing along his prostate. Dean, the consummate hedonist, even the simple act of opening himself up would turn into a pleasurable, sensual act all on its own. “Dude, shut up. I meant it. This, you and me? Forever. And we’re not gonna fuck this up by doing whatever the hell we did before. We’re gonna do anything and everything we’re both up for. I’m in—you good with this?”

Sam grunts his assent as he watched Dean slide a third finger in. He scrambles with the condom wrapper and rolls it onto himself, steals the lube and slicks his cock.

Without warning, Dean pulls his fingers free and slides down onto Sam’s cock, his face a mixed up expression of pleasure and pain. He goes to rise back up, but Sam rolls his eyes and grabs Dean’s hips. “Wait a minute,” he warns, and Dean miraculously listens. The pain fades from his face, so Sam lets his grip go slack, and when Dean begins to move, Sam uses his hands to guide Dean’s movements.

It’s over too quickly, for both of them, but it feels amazing while it lasts. Dean collapses on top of Sam, and Sam removes the condom, ties it off and aims for the wastebasket but doesn’t bother looking to see if it lands. “You okay?” he asks Dean, who is worryingly not moving at all.

But Dean chuckles. “Okay? Sammy, okay? Goddamnit, why didn’t you tell me how damn good that felt?”

Sam huffs a laugh. “You mean it? You’ll help me, help me get back to normal?”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Yeah, Sammy. I bet it won’t even be that hard. Just remind your body what a good touch feels like.” Dean leans closer, so his lips are against Sam’s ear. “Thinkin’ later tonight, I’ll get you on your hands and knees, start playing with that huge dick of yours, jerk it long and slow, drive you fucking crazy. And when you’re lost in the pleasure, I’ll bend over and lick your ass open for me. How’s that Sammy? You like that? Think that’ll work?”

Sam groans, a long, desperate sound, and if he didn’t know it was impossible, he would think he was already getting hard again. Dean chuckles. “Yeah, you like that, Sammy. Eat out your ass. ‘Course, maybe it won’t feel great at first, but I bet I can distract you from it. You always liked having your nipples played with. Gonna pinch them until they ache, have them stand straight out for me. Bet you by then, you won’t even notice what I’m doing to your ass, and it’s gonna feel so damn good…” Dean whispers as he licks at the shell of Sam’s ear.

“But I don’t think it’ll get you off, which is fine, Sammy. Gonna get you to roll me over, pin me to the mattress. Want you to open me up this time, feel your fingers in me. Then I wanna see how flexible I can be, wanna feel your massive fucking dick pounding into me. You like that, Sammy?”

Sam groans again, and he knows it won’t be that easy, that Dean rimming him once and some spectacular sex won’t be a cure-all for the damage he did to himself trying to protect Dean, but it’ll be a damn good start. And if that’s the start, Sam can’t wait to hear the rest of Dean’s plans…


End file.
